Just A Magic Trick
by DREAMIRIS
Summary: In a world where Jim Moriarty is on the side of the angels and Sherlock Holmes is a trickster ever oscillating between the dichotomy of good and bad and craving the distraction as the world gave, John Watson is a rising NSY detective struggling to put him behind bars. But the big question is, can he? Criminal!Lock AU, not Dark!Lock. ON HOLD FOR NOW BECAUSE THERE'S WAY TOO MANY WIPs
1. Chapter 1

**Ch. 1**

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Sherlock's POV:

I was five when I first saw a real magic trick. My brother Mycroft had accompanied me, just because he could get a certain flavour of ice cream there that he didn't get anywhere in our little village just outside of Lincolnshire. The Great Rambo Circus came near Lincolnshire once a year, and this was the first time I was permitted to go there. As we made our route from our little country house to the park where they usually camped in, Mycroft held on to hand tightly, as if afraid that I would go away somewhere or play truant on him, which I probably would, if he only let go of my hand squashed between his pudgy fingers.

I usually watched magic shows on the black-and-white television, on the kid's channel, on nickelodeon. I would always curl onto the linoleum, declaring that magic was stupid and boring, and that it was just a trick of the eye. Then my mother and my brother would invite me to work out what precisely was the trick that they used. I would flop down on the sofa and watch hard, completely focussed on the magician's fingers and I would think that yes, now he would do a certain action and lo! Behold the science behind the trick. And then, somehow, the trick would escape my eyes, and my mother and Mycroft would laugh identically at my dismay. I would throw an inadequate excuse of having blinked just at the "moment" and look away, while the thought that how he had done that would revolve in the back of my mind, tearing it apart.

Therefore, it was natural that because this was the first time I was getting to see a live magician, I was very excited, to the point where I almost dragged my brother instead of the other way round. On the way, I bought an apple and an orange, wanting to challenge the magician in case he tried that trick where he could make someone's jewellery disappear, only to recover it from inside a fruit or a vegetable of some sorts.

I watched in morbid fascination as the magician took a knitting needle, and slowly inserted it into his palm. Several of the children stifled cries at that, but I was the only one who had a manic smile on my face. The trickster met my eye, and winked at me, mouthing the words, "No blood, see!" Many parents wanted the show to be stopped, and the trickster be banished from the stage, but I gathered enough courage, and shook off my big brother's restraining arm and rushed up the stage, ducking through various people who tried to stop me, but I managed to climb up anyway, and take a closer look at the magician's palm. He did nothing, simply let me examine his palm. Even as a five-year-old, I knew about the constitution of human hand, with all its sinews and bones and muscles and blood vessels.

"Insert it further," I demanded, and the magician acquiesced. Slowly and steadily, he did, and on the other side of his palm, the needle started to poke out through his skin, like a tent supported by one of its poles. I was convinced that maybe because the hole that the needle was making through his skin was so fine that the flesh had somehow been bound in, or maybe he had extraordinary tolerance for pain, or maybe he had used a local anesthesia. Meanwhile, the trickster could see my brain at work on my face, and before he could react, I had taken it out of his palm.

The needle stared back at me, as if laughing at my incredulity. There was not a trace of blood on it! The man was smiling benevolently at me, and Mycroft's distant cries fell on my ear vaguely, "Brother, come away!" But I paid no heed as I ran my little fingers through his palm. There was only a hole, and it was not strictly see-through. I realised that it must be a result of a previous surgery, when he realised my reasoning, and patted my head, "I'll do it again for you."

I reached out into my pocket, and thrust in his palm a handful of coins, but he refused them, and I wondered why.

This time, he showed me an area of his skin which was unblemished, and with a sharp intake of breath, he slowly thrust it inside his palm, wincing in pain but I realised that he was not actually feeling any pain; he was simply feigning it. The result was same as before. Still unconvinced, I reached for him, took it out, and broke it into two halves, believing stupidly that it was flexible.

But he simply reached out for another needle, and the result was same as before.

"How do you do it?" I whispered incredulously, my little body doing nothing to obscure the intelligence which already was obvious in my perfect pronunciation. He did nothing but smile at my innocent face.

"Give me all the money in the world, and maybe I'll consider telling you."

"But _will_ you teach me if I gave you all the money in the world?"

He smiled, "No."

And before I could make any more interesting conversation with this singular man, my brother climbed up the stage and carried me away, with much protesting. The magician was asked to perform something else, lest his show be closed down. He simply bowed, removing his Arabian turban, and returning back to the trick for which I had bought the apple. But I did not bother to see his show anymore. I simply wondered how he did that, how he could not feel the pain. The last resort was left, and I was determined to track this man down and demand him for more answers.

My brother had a friend called Andrea. He called her a friend, but I knew that they were much more. It was one of the reasons why my brother kept his secretary's name "Anthea" later on in his life. Anyway, this Andrea was rather fond of me, and she used to buy me candies and other sweet foodstuffs, even though Mycroft paid most of the bill. For my part, I liked her very much. I planned for her mother, who was a very attractive woman and who approved of Mycroft for some reason I have not been able to understand till this date, to meet this magician man. My own mother never went out of the house, she had a sedentary lifestyle, and therefore, I endeavoured to introduce her as my mother. For a bachelor like him, a woman like Andrea's mother must hold some charm over him. They were chatting, when I burst in, questioning the validity of his trick.

To my surprise, the magician seemed much more interested in me than in her mother, "Yes, little one, what have you to say?"

"I want to perform an X-Ray. On your hand."

Yes, I know. I come across as dreadfully stupid and obsessive. But I was only a five-year-old child, who was keen on disproving everything which created the particular nagging sensation in the back of my mind.

The man looked shocked for a second as he heard 'X-Ray' roll from my little tongue, and I thought that I had got him, "You seem rather too fixated, young man."

"Yes, you must come with me at once and get an X-Ray done," said I solemnly.

He smirked at me, "What will I get?" I swallowed. I had nothing to offer, and my parents and Mycroft would certainly not agree to any sort of settlement. Nevertheless, I stood up proudly, and made the most false promise I had made in my entire life.

"I'll give you one thousand pounds."

To my surprise, he stood up too and studied me for one second. I felt exceedingly foolish for having made such an outlandish offer. Then, abandoning the lady, he clasped his hand in mine, and I had almost thought that he was about to make me sign an indemnity bond. But he did no such thing.

"Where shall I meet you?" he asked, as if he had seriously considered getting an X-Ray done with the needle in his hand. I reasoned that it was the money which had drawn him, but a little voice in me, a voice I did not recognise, a voice that had arisen only when I saw his trick for the first time, told me that he was doing this not just for the money. It was something else, but definitely not money.

"Right here," I nodded seriously, "I shall ask my uncle to send a vehicle for you at about 2, right after your lunch." I had become so invested in that very man that I had learnt up when his shows were being scheduled.

Being the dramatic little boy like I always was, I gathered the attention of the press, wherein I declared that this very man could run a needle through him, and blood would still not leak from his hand, and the media, with always a severe shortage of spicy news, arrived to our humble residence like bees to honey. My mother ran away to the insides of her room at having faced the onslaught of press in only her nightie. I knew that I could make or destroy this man's whole life, and frankly, my father was disturbed to learn that it did not matter to me. Mycroft simply rolled his eyes, and tried to console my father and calm my mother down.

By two o'clock, the press had gathered outside the venue of The Great Rambo Circus, almost every news channel featuring heavily the man who was about to take a X-Ray based on a child's whim. They declared that his name was Houdini (how unimaginative!), and went on and on about his confidence about passing the test. For his part, he calmly got into the vehicle with me and spoke nothing. I, for my part, was slightly bemused at the lack of reaction from him. We rode in silence to the doctor, where I had secured an appointment with the help of Andrea's mother (who catered to every single of my whim). Houdini, as I still call him, began his trick, and the doctor took an X-Ray. And the result which came out was practically unbelievable. The doctor's lab assistant fainted when she saw it, and they joked about burning him for being almost a wizard. I myself stared at this man in awe. The doctor concluded (to the absurd impossibility) that Houdini did not have blood inside of him. There was the evidence, clear on the X-Ray plate that the needle had in fact pierced through his skin, and was now lodged between his bones.

"You owe me a thousand," said he with a cheeky grin. I almost faltered at that, but then he suddenly said, "but I guess you have done that for me already . Thank you."

And with that, he snatched the photograph plate out of my fingers, making a small paper cut as he went away, but I did not notice it as he sauntered outdoors and showed the entire world the proof that he was one of a kind. Somehow, the little wound on my fingers did not bleed. It just grew red around the corners.

But my mind, oh, my mind was filled with millions of ideas and opportunities, as if someone had struck a match in the tiny, not-so-well-kept attic of my little brain, or a tungsten lamp. The idea had completely overtaken me once I saw that how, within a month, Houdini had gone from a simple circus performer to an international star. I was _obsessed._

I wanted to be a trickster.

For my part, my life, however young, wasn't smooth. Other boys made fun of my long, unkempt hair because my father had no sense on such things, and Mummy was completely invested in Mycroft's education. No one liked to be friends with me because I was the weird boy who always smelled of _farm._ I never bothered to put on my clothes in the proper parts of my body, and my classmates made fun of me all the time. I hated wearing clothes because they always ended up smelly and dirty and Mummy gave me a good telling off, pointing to how well-kept Mycroft's clothes were.

But most hurtful was Redbeard.

At that age, children had imaginary friends, and Redbeard was no exception. Mummy tried to make me understand that Redbeard wasn't real, and I kept on insisting quite foolishly that he was. My brother also tried to make me understand that Redbeard wasn't a real creature, but I was convinced that he was. I couldn't understand at that point of time why they couldn't see him, but I only reasoned that it was because he liked, and loved, me. Only me. As selfish as the thought was of keeping my only friend to myself, I couldn't stand Mycroft calling me an idiot all the time.

I knew the first thing I would do upon becoming a trickster. I would prove it to them that Redbeard was real. I would make him appear in front of them.

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**For those who are familiar with David Blaine the magician, they would recognise that needle trick at once. He actually took an X-Ray and showed it to the world that the needle could pierce through him while leaving nothing but a small, painless hole in his palm. I don't know how he does it, and I was smitten by the performance**


	2. Chapter 2

**Ch. 2**

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As you must have already figured, my vow was understandably and obviously impossible, even in terms of tricks and making fool out of people.

I think that's why being a trickster held such attraction for me. You see, being a child whose intellect wasn't as much as developed as Mycroft's was, he used to continuously bully me and call me an idiot. My mother stood up for me all the time, telling Mycroft that he was just the same when he was five, and obviously, even the greatest of tricksters could not erase the seven-year generation gap that our mother had very unjustifiably put up between us.

He was more experienced than me, come what may, and it was no wonder that I was a 'fool' in his eyes. I revelled in the small relief which came when our mother thankfully intervened, and now when I look back at those moments, I feel like a fool myself.

Even as a toddler, I began to understand that even the acts that defied the laws of nature were, in fact, governed by those very laws. Men willingly believe what they wish, was what Julius Caesar had proclaimed, and that was the basis of what people saw in their mind's eye, and were ultimately led to believe.

A magician, as you may have observed, always made a point to tell the people clearly, and explicitly what he was going to do, and what people had to expect when he did certain things. Many of them repeated those things over and over again, knowing that if they do, the action would be fixed in the men's minds, because it was human nature to do so, to imagine that the trick was actually going to blow their minds even if they are skeptical of the trickster.

So, the magician repeats over and over again, and he talks, and he distracts and then he makes your mind conjure up the surprise he is going to perform, and behold, his trick seems completely genuine! And therefore, it was a necessity for the trickster to be able to talk. For, do tell me, who has ever heard of a mute magician, unless his tricks are exceedingly powerful and mind-boggling?

But as you know, my brother, now Mycroft Holmes, MI6, the British Government _De Facto_, was impervious to such mind games, and unconsciously, I had made up my mind that the day I was able to fool my brother would be the day I would be the one I want to be. I would be Houdini.

So, as anyone might have expected, I was even more of an outcast in my so-called "social life". I couldn't help it, I was obsessed with the enormity of the idea that had captured my brain and my heart and my soul alike.

I watched, I saw through people's expectations, their fears, their insecurities, and I gradually stocked away into the attic of my brain what was what, and when to do what, and how to manipulate them into believing what I wanted them to. In kindergarten, I was in love with lying to people, just for the hell of it, just because it posed me a challenge. My lies were baseless and useless, but as now I look upon myself, I was born evil, not wicked, evil.

Lies were making up the foundation of my life, and I don't know what came over me. I was turning into some sort of a compulsive liar, who just couldn't help but lie about things.

For example, in Year 6 when we were taken on a field trip to a theme park, our teacher, Mr. Sanders, had his wallet stolen. He registered a stolen report with the patrol duty officers, who in turn asked each and every one of us whether we had seen any woman in black jeans with a tattoo of a lion on her neck. The thing was some thieveries had been recently reported in there, and the officers thought that the same person was coming over there everyday to pickpocket tourists.

Every single child replied in negative except for me, who claimed that I had. I still don't understand what came over me, but I simply told them, looking convincingly like a frightened little child who had seen a pickpocket and was scared because of it, that I _had_ seen such a woman.

The police were victorious, and I still cannot express, cannot verbalise how my heart hammered in my chest at the thought that if I was found out to be lying, something would happen to me... maybe I would end up in police custody... and somehow, the idea was irrepressible in my chest. It felt _so insanely_ good, that I would've gladly watched Redbeard die on a slab to feel that way again.

I don't know why I did what I did, those were little impulses. I told them an extremely convincing story of how I was going in for the Ferris wheel when one of my classmates Cassie had pushed me away from the line, and that that's when I saw her. I wrapped the lie in the truth, and frankly, I did not have to think while I did that. It came naturally. I was a conman, a born conman. The police were blithering idiots who believed every single word which I said.

Nonetheless, they never discovered the wallet of course, and simply assumed that the woman had got away.

But I did not stop there. I loved telling lies, to always turn my friends against each other, my classmates against their own parents and the teachers. One day, I achieved such command over my pigheaded classmates that they all believed that British National Party should win the next elections, and they convinced their parents to vote for them. I frankly had no idea why I loved hurting people, not in a sadist kind of way, but in a way that was inherent to me. I could not help it and I did not feel anything out of it, it was more of an impulse. Whenever someone confided in me some sort of secret, my brain would tear itself apart trying to fight the urge to divulge the secret, and somehow it caused me great joy to see that my plans had worked and that the person became wrecked.

But as I grew up, I suppressed my urges to lie and to destroy other people. In spite of everything, I was alone, and while I confess that I did not understand what it was like until now, which led me to write to you this memoir, I was sufficiently happy.

I think I _was _a psychopath, and I still believe that I am, because that's just a part of me. Although, I don't think I might be as antisocial as one thinks a psychopath is supposed to be. Anyway, what matters if anyone does think? They're all idiots.

I abandoned the idea of ever making Redbeard come true, because frankly, I had grown out of it. I too, understood that Redbeard did not exist, and to my parents surprise, I got over it in an hour. I watched countless magic shows, I told the magicians their tricks out loud and humiliated them in public and then re-did their show under their scandalised noses with much more finesse as I enjoyed the look of terror that I inspired on the audience's faces, while my brother pleaded with me to come down and stop being a drama queen.

My classmates always called me a psychopath, a term I was starting to believe was true. I enjoyed terrifying them, and I enjoyed extracting surprise, horror, admiration, stupefaction from people whilst maintaining an expression of complete detachment until they could hardly bear it.

But my brother, he wouldn't be fooled. Although as days went by, as I delved deeper into the psychology of a human being, although I fared amazingly in school with all the sciences subjects because I knew that every ounce of knowledge was important to me, my brother couldn't tell what I was doing when I was doing it, and although he said that my hobby was as useless as a used piece of tissue paper, he could no longer _deduce_ what I was doing in the mind-boggling tricks that was my speciality.

But still, that infuriatingly calm facade maintained itself religiously on his bland face, until he remained the only one who would not gasp. I had not tried that one trick on him, the one where I could catch the bullet between my teeth, because of obvious reasons.

As you know, I was very dear to my brother, or so everybody says. He thought I hated him, and I took advantage of that all the time, because he would be over-the-moon when I would be more brotherly, and would be ready to sink on his knees in front of me. I was his pressure point after all. And therefore, any tricks, whichever I tried on my life would obviously affect him on a subconscious level, and I had become good enough to track that in his eyes. Better than him actually, but I never let him understand that.

So I tried and tried, and as days went by, he became harder to crack, and colder towards the whole world. He thought I didn't know, but I knew that whenever he locked himself up in his room under the pretext of studying for the next test which was a month away, he secretly cried for Andrea, who had moved to Germany. I had suspected that my brother was in love with her, and my doubts came to be realised when he, instead of moving on from her, curled into himself, built his defences around, and in a moment of weakness, named his future assistant as Anthea, who looked very much like Andrea did.

That day, I had been trying a trick where I could make the name of the colour appear across the walls whatever the speaker asked me to by blowing fire or water into it, when Mycroft finally cracked. I was sixteen, and he was completing university, having come back to our home for Christmas. I still don't understand why my parents insisted that Mycroft be sent to university when he was of age, when he could have cleared it at fourteen itself. It would've taken his mind off Andrea, but my parents did not know that. My brother was always very good at hiding things, and I was good at discovering things. It really was a match made in heaven.

Mummy gasped in astonishment for the umpteenth time, as I took a bow. She was always supportive of me and my little hobby, even though her background was completely scientific. Well, it had to be. Magic was nothing if not science. Really clever and the sort of science which is connected in jumps and leaps and not by lines. Mycroft had been sitting nearby, trying his best to study on the dining table because the upper floors of our house had some repair works being done.

Now, this fire-colour trick was actually complicated. To satisfy your curiosity, I will make a note of this trick, but not the secret, of course, though I doubt you'll understand even I've explained two-and-a-half pages to you on that.

I had some letters spray-painted on the wall. Five randomly chosen letters by Mummy. The trick was at least one of the letters was always 'L' or 'Z'... well, I won't go deeper into the secret after that. And then I ask her to tell me her favourite colour. She says blue. My father says yellow because it compliments blue on VIBGYOR spectrum. Hopelessly romantic, I know. My brother always asks me go and waste my breath on someone who cares about such a trivial detail as a favourite colour.

Then, I take my father's scotch, and take a sip of it. My father jokes that the trick might be just an excuse to drink the excellent wine, and I roll my eyes. I assure them that the fire won't travel to... well, the more precious belongings in the house like the refrigerator or the television. I did set the lilo on fire once during one of my experiments with my tricks.

So, anyway, I take a sip of my father scotch, light a match, and blow it with "dragon-fire" as I like to call it, on the wall, right on the sprayed letters, and when the audience would see it, there would be the name of their favourite colour on the wall. Sometimes, I don't even ask them, I just tell them to think of their favourite colour, and it works like a charm (literally like a charm). High praise for Sherlock Holmes.

But this time, it was different. My brother was calm most of the time, but let me tell you, I am the one who has faced his wrath personally, and so I know how furious and how _terrifying _he can be when he wants to be. Although he simply took the scotch flask and hurled it contents into my face, I could sense that he wanted much more than that. He looked like he could tear me apart. He looked like he wanted to hate me till he could bear it. It wasn't jealousy, I could see it. He himself got more praises on a daily basis than I did. And he wasn't a man who could be moved by something as human as jealousy. There were few emotions he had felt in his entire lifetime, and I could count them on two fingers.

Anyway, that was my breaking point too.

The next morning, Mummy found my bed unslept in, and my window ajar, with some of my prized possessions gone from the room. She cried, and frankly I knew what was going to happen. As a teenage, I have heard about the onslaught of emotions that a teenager feels, and I didn't feel concerned by the lack of them. I felt redeemed.

I had a way of making my livelihood, and I knew my parents would be looking for me, especially for a teenage boy who performed impossible feats. I knew I would be caught. I had to escape. My life wasn't easy, and the one thing I found difficult was living alone. Seeing that I was an abandoned boy, bullies on the street would beat me up, trying to mug me, and the only fighting exercise I had had was from the bullies in my school. I had been seeing a boy (for purely educational purposes), and they had found us making out in a closet, although I must say that I rather enjoyed being touched by him. The bullies had found us, and he had escaped whereas I had been kicked several times in the gut. Till today, I believe it was a set-up, because that was a make-out spot I had used for two years with other boys who I had suspected were homosexuals, and I had never been caught before.

Anyway, I my life on the streets might have been free, but it was equally hard. I couldn't do very basic tricks; people would pay me nothing, and on the same time, if I would show them my best ones, I would get my money but then, I'd have to keep moving. And then I saw my freedom.

An troupe of actors were in town, and they were auditioning for a new minor role. I applied, and before everything, I was touring places in Europe with them, impressing the others with my skills and of course, my little tricks. Frankly, I still believe that people are sent to be a weight on the Earth so that they can appreciate my talents, my skills. I was reserved to myself, and I simply observed, and I always had my witty comebacks ready with myself. I was a mystery character to the women in the troupe, with my cigarette and my "high razor sharp" cheekbones and my eyes, and some of them kept drooling around for me, even for one night stands.

I tried one or two of them, but to tell the truth, I find them repulsive with subcutaneous fat just in the places where I don't like them to be, and with their vulgar loudness when I teased the walls of their vulva. A man was always better, but I moulded myself to be able to bed any woman I needed to. Something told me that advantage gained using intimacy as a weapon was far more superior than the mind, and although at that time, I was a fool and too young to think otherwise. But right now, with the man lying beside me on my bed and snoring softly, I can tell you that it is.

But I was always attracted to men. And that habit hadn't gone away.

There was one of them, called Andrew, or Andy, twenty three years old who played the role of Lord Phelps in some Victorian age drama. Tall, regal and seductive he was with his perfect hair and leather jacket and our shared cigarette moments, I was a crazy teenager who needed _proper_ sex after my misadventures with the women. After a bad attempt to tell him that we could be just intimate, just for the purposes of sex and that I would not expect anything else out of it (hell, I didn't _need_ a relationship ever), his mouth went to mine, and my hands slipped between his legs, and one thing led to another, and a couple of hours later, I found myself thrusting into him as hard as I could. There was an aesthetic pleasure to be able to revel in the knowledge that you have just brought another fellow being to climax. Although most people on the earth are idiots and I found no pleasure to indulge them in pleasantries (and much more), intercourse was an exception.

"Sherlock," he called my name, as I slipped out of him, and he dragged me down for a heated kiss. I returned it in full-measure, preparing myself to get a hard-on again for the second round when he wrapped his fingers around mine and simply stroked my length as if stroking an animal in heat to make it calm down. I did not want to calm down. I wanted to get for myself as much sex as I could have before pretending that this never happened for another week.

"Second round," I murmured against his lips, my fingers rubbing his button-like hard nipples teasingly, "I promise to be _worse_ this time."

My provocative words had their effect on him. He was starting to get a hard-on. I cannot verbalise how much I wanted him back then, the muscular tightness of his arsehole around my prick which had been so hard that it could fuck through ten layers of iron and steel, so hot that I had felt it going aflame. Nevertheless, he wrapped his arms around me and nuzzled his face in the hollow of my neck. I grimaced a little. I was not looking for this, for cuddling and snuggling like a happy couple. I needed something to sate my lust-frenzied mind. But he was a less fortunate being. He felt the rush of Oxytocin run through him, and against his wishes, he wanted more than physical intimacy at the moment. I indulged in the blatant show of emotion, when I realised that it was not what it seemed to be.

He was an amazing actor, but like I said, he was a less fortunate being. I could see through that he had something else to say, something that he was waiting for for the opportune moment. I snapped at him, "Get on with it, and save me some time."

He flinched a little; I felt it in the contraction of his muscles, his muscles which felt so right against me as I had wrapped my arms around his waist and rubbed the head of his cock as I plunged deeper into him, breaking him, and then making him the way I wanted him to be. He was older, but I had more experience with sex with other men.

"Show me one of your tricks, Sherl." Said he, and I frowned at the disgusting nickname. Nevertheless, I caressed the sensitive skin, right below his navel as I dipped my tongue in there and felt him shiver with pleasure.

"Cause and effect, love," I spoke and kissed him, but he shook me away.

"Not orgasmic magic, useless," he snapped, "The sort of magic you did like capturing the disembodied flame in your palm, that sort."

I bit my lip, my libido and my state of hardness forgotten. I asked him to be more precise, and I've never seen him more uncertain. If it wasn't for the post-orgasmic haze, I knew he would never have dared to tell me.

"Can you make something disappear, dearest?" He asked, and although I didn't like being called that either, because I've got a name and he could call me Sherlock and it would be so much less wastage of brain and mitochondria power to call me by my real name, my ears perked up at that. I could do such things, but Andrew's tone suggested that it was something else that he was seeking confirmation about.

And that's how I became a trickster of the real world.

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**Review?**


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry this came out late, and sorry for the rest of the postings, which will also come out late from now on :( Hope you like this chapter**

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"Can you make something disappear, dearest?"

The words echoed in my mind, like I felt something falling back into place.

Disappearing was a trick I was a master at. It's one of the most basic tricks, a regular on a trickster's menu. Size can sometimes be a problem, but mostly it isn't. It's just fooling people, a beautiful optical illusion. Some can make things like a ring or a comb disappear, some can make whole buildings disappear. Some more antagonistic could make other men disappear, if you get what I'm saying.

Every human being, at some point of their mundane lives has wanted something to disappear completely, be it their problems, or certain people or even themselves. I have done that more times than I can keep a track of. I began with disappearing into the locker rooms and abandoned stair cupboards to make out with repressed gay boys so that I wouldn't have to expose myself to the homophobic bullies at school. I disappeared from my parents so that I could live my life the way I wanted. I played hide and seek with the world. And I liked it.

Maybe that's why making even a small piece of jewellery disappear held such attraction for ordinary people. It gave them a false sense of security, without them realising or not, that they could disappear too, and escape the daily conundrums of life.

Magic was lucrative because it gave the ordinary people a sense of mutual bonding through supernatural things, things that our ancestors had believed in even before they made up the first language. Magic was nothing but a temptation to man, making him believe, falsely, may I add, that he was powerful, more powerful than those who he believed to have created him. If there's one thing that every human craves, it's the sense of being powerful. Even the most humblest of them crave that.

At the most basic of level, a child wants to grow up so that people don't look down at him. Senile old men remember the primes of their lives with joy. Even the most humblest, the most simplest of man craves power, but in a different sense. Their ethics and their character might limit the sort of power they crave for, but the object for longing is the same.

Same was for me. I saw power in freedom. I felt power at being one of those people who could tempt a man and finally drive him out of his mind. I felt power in making others feel at distress. I didn't know why. I have yet not been able to understand myself. I am the most fascinating thing I have ever encountered. I feel a sort of power as I write that down.

Same for Andy. He was doing this for a sort of power. What, I had yet to know.

In all the post-orgasmic haze, Andy told me of his real plan, and of his nephew, James Moriarty, the director of one of the biggest private security firms across the world, who was about to sign a contract with the World Bank. Legal consultant, said Andy. But not a lawyer. Different from a lawyer, because he had knowledge _and_ resources. He gave security to banks, he had trained men working undercover for various intelligence agencies. Big institutions came to avail his service, took his advice as a consultant and led on with their boring lives. Bloody social worker.

A powerful man with his web all around the world.

Andy got up and turned his laptop on without bothering to snatch his underwear up his hips. I had no idea how he was privy to such classified information, but then, this James man was his nephew, so he must have some degree of access to it.

"Jim," he said, correcting me, "Jim Moriarty."

I echoed the name.

It sounded odd on my lips. Odd, unconventional. Moriarty is an Irish name. But if one decides to dissect the name properly, one can go into the hidden secrets that it whispers. If one traced it via French, a language I knew since I was nine, it was easy: "La mort"—death—"Rire"—laugh—and finally, "L'art"—art. Put it all together, add a "y" to make it sound more English, and you had "Moriarty".

That sounded so contrary to what the man actually did. Moriarty was supposed to be an evil man's name. This one's on the side of the angels.

And where was I, on which side was I? I didn't know. I still don't know. I never knew. I knew that I wasn't a good person. Anybody who liked wrecking somebody else couldn't be a good person. I was always stuck between good and bad, only made compromise when I really, _really_ wanted something. I was a loose cannon. I walked the No Man's Land, thriving on bland praise from my acting colleagues or mostly from the little tricks with which I amused the director into giving me the roles I deemed good enough for me, or rejecting the roles. . . or mostly bending Andy over in his bed and fucking him into the mattress as passionately as I could.

Coming back to Andy, this bank security firm was his cousin brother's inheritance, a maulding, a shame to the Moriarty's before James came over and turned it into—well, what it was now. Andy's reasons were purely out of spite and revenge, as if he could've made it into what James had made it into, but then, he made a request of me, an almost impossible request.

"Can you make something disappear, dearest?"

I could. Optical illusion was one of my strengths, I was about to tell him, but then came the almost (mind the "almost") impossible part of his request.

"The whole vault in the face of all the security of the bank?"

I stopped in my tracks. That was positively impossible. Was I that persuasive when I performed my tricks? Are people that naive? I was slapped in the face by the reality of it. I covered myself with the bedsheet and sauntered over to him, settling on the other side of the bed to peer into the laptop screen into the web article.

The dark haired, pale skinned man had far more frontal development than I had expected. To tell the truth, much more than I did. I'm not bragging, I never brag, I always present facts just like they're thrown at me, with no alteration whatsoever. Yes, a trickster does, but that's what my trade demands of me, that's not what I am. His handsome face was positively gleeful as he faced the press to talk about his latest contract with the World Bank. What a glorious sight it would be, to throw that shine of happiness right in his face, I thought.

I chided myself at the unexpected sentiment coming through. This man was no different to me than a stranger. And yet as I watched him warily, I felt a sort of jubilation, the sort that the animals experience when they know that they've found their kind, a part of their pack or their species on abandoned land. The sort of happiness that this James—Jim—exuded in his excited features was the same way I sometimes felt when I developed a new trick out of my own efforts. I automatically felt a connection to him, like I could relate with this stranger.

I had never felt this way before. I had never know that there could exist people like that. I thought I was the only one in the world.

I didn't realise what purpose it would serve, making the vault disappear, when Andy (presuming he was going to break into the security that James was building just to annoy him—I can completely sympathise with _that_) could profit by simply (yes, now this is an over-exaggeration) stealing the money. I pointed this out to him, at which he only ruffled my hair.

"My dear," he said with utmost affection and love, "you're only made for having sex."

That was a sentence that went to the deep corners of my heart and stayed there, its roots growing like the tubers of a parasite. I wasn't made for sex. I had one of the greatest minds and I kept my brains under covers so that my mother and father and my arse of a brother couldn't find me despite their best efforts. I knew they didn't have a clue where I was. Otherwise, my brother wouldn't have wasted a minute to drag me back to that infernal place. I was happy and free here, my sexual needs were being fulfilled completely for the first time. I had Andy, I could make love, scratch that, fuck and defile him as much as I pleased. I played my role on the stage, I played my director and I played bed matey to a man who called me a sex toy.

How dare he call me a sex toy?

Nevertheless, I maintained a stony face, "As flattered as I am with that compliment, I can do much more than that. You'll be needing me. You'll be nothing without me."

"The plan is mine," he said, his hand stroking his prick absentmindedly and distracting me from my thoughts, "execution is yours."

I realised just how aroused I was, just by watching him stroke himself. The sight was mesmerizing, the splotch of hot blood blooming on his chest, his erect member aching for my touch. He looked at me biting his lip lecherously, and his heaving breath danced like a tune in my ears. He smirked and spread his legs, stroking his cock with one hand and just touching his crack with another, watching me watching him. I wasn't conscious of my nudity but I was so turned on that I could hardly believe it. I lay on the bed, my cock half-erect and he lay against his back on the sofa, his posture screaming "come and take me now". I wanted to touch him. I wanted to fuck him. I wanted to kiss the blood out of him.

Slowly, I rose and settled down in front of him. I knew I probably looked like a man-whore, drooling at the sight of the glistening shaft of his cock.

"See what I mean?" he said through ragged breaths.

I hated myself, the way my heart beat against my ribs. I had lost control of my lower half again. It was a double-edged sword, my libido. On one hand, I could just exert my influence over anyone with sex, and on the other hand, anyone could make me do unspeakable things in the name of sex. It was unsettling to think of that.

"Touch me, Sherlock," he whispered. I could do nothing. I was paralysed by lust. I was young, I was sixteen, I had raging hormones and I can't blame myself. Andy had all the charms in the world. He had more control over himself. He brought my hands to his cock and I tightened my grip on him. I felt power, I felt being in control even though I clearly wasn't.

"Don't you want to fuck me now?" He whispered wantonly, "I bet you do. Poor little teenager like you, pushing those hormones into overdrive."

I knew what this was. Temptation. Even stronger because I was technically underage. Because even though I was sixteen, under the eyes of law, I was fifteen—another of my antics that I pulled off in prep. I was being lured into what I lured others into. I could be hunted and be a hunter too, I learnt. The proud thing, if I had any sense of shame, would have been to refuse him then and there, but who said that I had any sense of shame at all.

I leant up and assaulted his mouth for even daring to say such things. I bit into his neck and shoulder and felt him shiver against me. I felt his skin against mine. So right, so wrong. It wasn't pleasure in me no more. I had given in to temptation.

Oh that skin, it makes me want to wrap my fingers around my member even now just to think of it, the musky aroma of that body, the scent of him, the heat of him when I was skin-to-skin with him. The shape of his mouth so perfect, the fit of it with mine beyond so. Our scents, our sweat mingled together as I pulled his groin sharply forward and grinded our crotches together. The sounds he made were breathless, absolutely illegal. Oh, what would I not give away to fuck him in front of everybody and then tear him away from the prying eyes of the world. "Oh yes, that's good," he moaned and rolled his hips. Intimacy was always such a foreign, overwhelming thing for me. Even if it was just the same thing over and over again every time—go in, go out, get some friction, spill some semen and you're done—I seemed to keep wanting more. I seemed to hunger for it every time even though there was nothing new. It was such a paradox.

I pictured our position from the eyes of a third person and that just seemed to make it more heated. I wished I could tear every single piece of skin from him, separate the bone from the tissue with my tongue. I wished I could bite into him deeper not because it would hurt him, but because I wanted to be one with him in every way that I could. I wanted to get under his skin and be there. I wanted to be buried inside him and never be out. We were not even twenty four hours into our arrangement and I wanted him more than I had ever wanted anything.

Sex toy, my brain kept chanting and I bit harder, rolled the hard nubs of his nipples between my forefinger and my thumb. He loved nipple play, he came once just because of it. He called me a sex toy. I gave him a searing look before I pulled myself of him, off his breathless figure, off the bed. How I had reached there, I did not remember.

I looked at him, at his pathetic thrashing figure, his cock erect even after our activities all night. Sex toy, I gritted my teeth and stumbled towards the drink I had poured for him before the beginning of this round. A ice cube was melting at the bottom of it. I picked it up and he watched me, fascinated as my eyes met his hazel ones.

Sex toy.

"Come after this ice cube melts, and I'll consider," I breathed out and smirked. He gulped. He was trembling from head to toe, his legs spread. For me. An unspoken invitation. To start him off, I rubbed the glans of my own cock with the thumb of my free hand.

Sex toy, I seethed in anger, but even when I was in such an emotionally overwhelming situation, I kept my fury in control.

"It'll take a second for it to melt," his voice hitched. He made a "come here" gesture, one I refused to pay any heed to. The cold of the ice was making my fingers numb, the chill spread through the capillaries, and although it wasn't biologically possible, I thought for a second that blood would turn into ice in which shrunken cells were suspended. I thought of inserting that finger in Andy and the sound he would make when I would do that to him.

"My hands are cold, you know that well," I said and he smirked at that, "and you're already leaking more than this ice cube, aren't you, _dear_?"

His eyes on the ice cube, he gripped his cock in his right hand and he dipped the index finger of his left hand into the cleft of his arse. I licked my lips hungrily, remembering the way he had tasted down there. His abused hole winked at me, alluring me, inviting me to dig my thumbs into it, stretch him without any warning and fuck him without lube. What sounds would he make then? Raw-throated screams weren't a far-fetched possibility now.

He wouldn't need lube, though. Filthy man-whore that he was, still had my ejaculate inside him.

I held on to the ice cube religiously as he began to put on some of the sounds that I loved the most. I tried to resist him, I knew he was trying to make me drop the ice cube so that he could find his release. He had his body and his charms as a weapon, I had my tricks. If he could cheat, so could I.

He didn't need to know that, did he?

He stared at the ice cube which remained solid stubbornly, his gaze frantically sweeping from it to the floor. There was no condensate on the floor. Of course there wasn't going to be, was there? I was the trickster. I knew how to defy laws of physics. And he didn't know which ones I could defy, and which ones I couldn't.

He stopped stroking himself. I could tell that he needed to release the pressure; his cock was almost blue from overstimulation and he'd die if he didn't come, but I wasn't worried in the slightest. That would make an interesting article on page twenty six, wouldn't it? _Man died of overstimulation_.

Sex toy.

It was over twenty minutes since he began to plead for release. The ice cube refused to melt in my grip. And even if it did, he couldn't realise it. I made him see that I wanted him to see. And he gave me what I wanted. He was making the most obscene of noises, he was muttering please, please, please over and over again. He was thrashing on the bed. Where his hand on his cock had been to arouse himself again, it was now to stop the outflow of his ejaculate.

"Need help?" I asked cheekily, but I was panting in earnest now too. This was him at his best. At his worst. I wished I had a camera to capture him like this. I wish I knew how to paint so that I could draw him on a canvas, the pleasure, the pain.

He simply whimpered in response. The white vitreous of his eyes were slowly turning red as the capillaries rose around his eclipsed irises. He really looked like he could die now.

I twisted my wrist, and he came, the semen erupting in white jets and spilling on the carpet of our suite. I worked myself up so that I orgasmed at the same moment as he did. I had never seen a sight more marvellous. I had never felt any more marvellous that that.

He blinked after that and first thing, he looked at my hand. The cube had disappeared, and I was rolling my left nipple between my fingers, taking advantage of the chillness of my fingers to make it look more erect. Tingling, it stiffened into button-hard nubs. He stared at it, open mouthed, panting like a dog.

Sex toy.

Most tricksters make things disappear and keep the actual thing in their pocket or their shirt cuff. I was completely nude when I did that.

"That's how I make things disappear, my dear," said I.

* * *

Turned out, Andy had been planning this since a long time. He introduced me to his partner in the faux-heist that he was going to pull off. I wasn't entirely sure why I was helping him. Even though I never have set much store by intuition, I could tell that I wanted to. Why, again, I wasn't sure. Just. . . I wanted to. I thought of that Jim guy and I thought of his honest smile which would fade into nothingness when he would discover that his security systems had failed to keep the bank secure. It gave me the sort of satisfaction like it used to give me when I outed others' secrets in public when they trusted it to me.

Some other bank, whose name I don't bother to remember, had signed a similar contract with Moriarty a few weeks ago. Our—his—window of opportunity. He'd run a demo on the Kensington branch of that bank and then he'd go to the world stage from there.

A safety deposit box in the bank, a spray can full of water, a wheelchair, a spycam and me; that's the equipment we needed.

Andy's partner was almost out of the picture—he was a good driver and had some practice at some local shooting range with his dad's gun—because he positioned himself near the coffee shop outside. Andy, being an exceptional actor by the standards of ordinary people was a crippled man on the wheelchair and I, his valet who helped and pushed him around.

I helped him into a wheelchair as he got out of his SUV, taking in people in the carpark and a couple of security cameras as witness about his apparent handicap. Pushing him along the tarmac path lit with fluorescent, I began to ponder.

What was I doing?

I swear that it didn't matter to me that we were breaking the laws. I don't have any sort of sympathy for those blithering idiots who decreed that dying in the houses of the Parliament was an offence. I thought about my father, honest, hard-working, who kept all his savings in a bank, got interest out of it and invested it in life insurance schemes so that he and my mother could live in peace without any financial trouble. I thought about countless fathers who were like mine. I thought about the time in that amusement theme park, where I had lied to the police in the face. I thought about the last night, fucking Andy up into the wall, and about tonight, which was still unplanned.

It wasn't a big deal.

I wasn't a sex toy, my mind echoed. I had the brain. I have the power.

We were run through the metal detector. Well, not Andy's wheelchair, at least, because the entire frame was of metal. How naive, humans were. They didn't look for the spycam fitted in the arm of the wheelchair. After a thorough check, we were led down to the vaults. The security man beside me in the elevator wore an insignia of Moriarty Security Services and Co. I did not need to see Andy's face.

He shifted in his chair a little, that's all the discomfort right there. How he hated his nephew, how sentiment got the better of him.

I leant down to him and pitched my voice deeper, "Still sore, are you?"

He didn't smile, but I could see the gleam of mischief in his eyes. My heart stuttered all the way. Whether because of the excitement or because of lust, I didn't know.

The spycam recorded every security detail we went through, the corridors, the antechamber, the key codes to various other safes, the combination to every door. How easy. How could it be so easy? How could people be so blind to what was staring them right in the face. Anyone, anyone at all could make out the gleam of the lens there. Anyone could have it checked and reveal the spycam. How could anyone be so blind, my brain cried out inwardly.

My heart had never beat faster. Adrenaline pumped into my system so hard that I was surprised I could take the pressure of it, of the overdrive. Every step I took felt like white-hot knives being stabbed into my feet. It was no big deal, I told myself. I couldn't get caught. And even if I did, the footage would prove them wrong, because the security camera was at another angle, the audience at some other. And it should only be a matter of a minute or so.

I pushed Andy and walked deeper into the vaults with the security guy who accompanied me. Crossing the last antechamber would give me access to the biggest set of vaults in there, the ones used by gem traders, etc for safekeeping. How people killed for money, for pretty rocks that glittered blue or red or green or even transparent was beyond me.

I thought about the one man who had inspired me—Houdini—who had disappeared now and gone away to the world and away from me. I thought of other famous world-renowned tricksters. I thought of this one Indian illusionist guy who made the Taj Mahal disappear into thin air in front of a huge crowd for two minutes. It would be less than ten people in my case, and for a considerably longer time with cameras in there.

It was no big deal, I thought, as I stepped into the vaults. The trick of making things disappear was an old technique. It's all science, but more than that it's about the science of controlling the mind and the willpower to create a psychic balance with the environment. I simply needed an audience. Just like a detective is nothing without the crime, a trickster is nothing without the audience.

And I had one, namely the security guard.

People say that they knew how one can make things disappear. They'll ask you to watch _Breaking The Magician's Code: Magic's Biggest Secrets Finally Revealed_ on AX or some crap telly thing. They'll ask me to do my tricks a thousand times till they were satisfied that it was indeed mind-blowing and that they couldn't figure out the science behind it. They'll tell you something absurd like I stopped the light rays from reaching the spectators' eyes.

They don't understand that they're the victim of their own minds. It's all about bonding and power and feeling special. It's science and a lot of mindfucking. Go read a half-a-foot thick textbook on Applied Psychology for the next forty years of your life and maybe you'll get what I'm talking about.

It wasn't easy, not in the slightest. The security guard had his eyes on my actions, and I decided to humour him. I talked about distracting the audience and telling them what my trick was about, remember? That's what I was going to do.

"You're pulling in extra hours," I said quietly as we waited for the elevator. He looked at me in surprise, and then nodded, "yes, sir."

"You should tell your boss that," Andy said seriously, "Not healthy for you."

He stared at me with incredulity but didn't say anything except for a meek reply of "yes, sir." I knew I came across as a stupid nosy guy in a two hundred quid suit. I wanted to.

"I mean, for example when I pulled double shifts at work, I always used to see stupid things. I walked past a drawer, and the next moment, it would disappear. Can you imagine that, mate? I mean," I rolled my eyes, "Jesus Christ!"

It was trite. Hell, it was so tiring. Andy was there to support whatever I said, otherwise I wouldn't have been able to achieve it within the time. But it was necessary, and in the end, when I saw his eyes rolling upwards and going to his right, I could understand that he was trying to imagine clearly whatever rubbish Andy and I were telling him about. The lighting was just suitable for my trick. Pure white light, fluorescent. It would've worked best with dim yellow, but it was alright for me.

The guard opened the gate to the antechamber of the vaults with a foot long key and the spycam recorded every single detail of the kind of alarms. To see that men still spent money on this instead of their boring trite lives gave me a wicked delight that only a challenge can give a man hungry for them. He flashed his holder ID card at the camera and typed in a combination He opened the padlocked steel grate and waited outside, giving us privacy (bank protocol, security reasons again) which lasted approximately ten seconds, because that's as long human surprise can extend to without any verbal reaction.

It was my turn now. Again, you wouldn't understand the science behind that trick. Let's just say that there's total internal reflection, and an optically dense medium—that was water—involved. I could keep that charade on for two-and-a-half minutes for this time, after which the water hidden the spray can in the wheelchair would be exhausted.

And at any rate, we weren't stealing. We were just making headlines.

Exactly after ten seconds, Andy and I cried out in harmony, "What the fuck?!"

I stomped out and beckoned to the guard good-naturedly, "You're really over-worked. You got us into the wrong room, mate."

His eyes widened, "What?!"

"There's no vaults in here, man—"

Before he could even finish, he pushed past me and stared at the empty wall in front of him. Nothing. The vault stood empty. Completely.

"What the hell is this?!" Andy demanded. "I remember coming to this place. I remember seeing this gate thing."

The guard staggered backwards and stayed mum—for ten seconds—before calling for backup on his radio.

Soon there was chaos everywhere. We were led out safely, with apologies. People rushed about, frantic, yelling that the bank was robbed when it wasn't. It was only a dress rehearsal, one which had gone successfully. The spycam recorded each and every security measure that had been taken to deal with the problem. I felt thrill and saw it mirrored in Andy's hazel eyes.

"On my back tonight," he whispered.

I had never felt better.


End file.
